


How He Changes

by beforeclocks



Category: Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforeclocks/pseuds/beforeclocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard thinks Vince is one of the most alluring men he's ever met but life is never simple. Only a fool would think that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic written in 2010. Posted here to keep things tidy.

I’ve tried three bars in twenty minutes, and been refused service at every one, all because I’m driving. What sort of world do we live in when a grown man can’t knock back a beer and then take a twenty minute drive home? Luckily, I remember about this one pub just around the corner.

I’ve never been to it before, even though I drive past it almost every day on my way home. I’ve heard it was one of those places that ‘old regulars’ went to, and when I step inside it’s instantly obvious why. The whole building is no bigger than my living room; it’s badly lit and smells damp. The floors are sticky with something I hope isn’t blood. My first reaction is to turn straight around and just go home, but then the kid behind the bar catches my eye, and after that I can’t turn away.

I slowly move towards him, manoeuvring around the randomly placed tables. Only two of the tables actually have people sitting at them, and apart from me, only one other patron is sitting at the bar. I quickly work out the reason for the lone man serving. If you could call him a man.

He can’t be a day older than twenty-four and he’s wearing what looks suspiciously like women’s clothes. They cling to his body almost elegantly, and for a moment I completely forget why I’m here. Thankfully, he speaks first.

"Your cash is good at the bar."

I stare at him blankly, unable to process what he’s saying. And once I do realise, I’m shocked. No one’s ever spoken to me like that in over four years. So bluntly, without a flicker of fear.

"What? Do you know who I am?"

"I do. You're lucky the bar's open to you."

He’s smiling at me, but I can’t find anything to say, so he continues.

“What can I get you, then?”

“Um… I’ll have a–a double whiskey.”

For God’s sake Howard! Grow up! Pull yourself together! But for once my brain doesn’t have the upper hand. I’m not sure what part of me is making me stare at the kid, but I don’t like it. It’s almost like those ridiculous crushes in school. Except it isn’t. Not quite.

He pours my drink and hands it to me without saying another word, for which I’m grateful. I don’t think my head could take any more conversation. The kid doesn’t move though; he stands directly in front of me, just watching me drink. It’s unnerving, but I can’t bring myself to tell him to go away. Instead, I ignore him as best I can, allowing myself to unwind.

Everything about my day was crap, from waking up late because my bloody alarm clock ran out of batteries, to driving around for three hours trying to find the guy I’m supposed to be questioning. And I know this is the only part of my day I might actually enjoy, so I savour it. I can’t forget the kid’s still there, though, especially when he starts talking.

“So, did you drive here?”

Damn, I think, he’s gonna kick me out before I’ve even had a chance to finish one whiskey. I nod reluctantly. No point lying when there’s a large, silver Ferrari F430 (not the convertible, because I don’t want to look like a woman) parked outside. It’s not like anyone else in here could own it.

“Cool.” What he says next isn’t what I was expecting, “What car’s it?”

I take a couple of breaths and gulp a few times before managing to tell him. He looks at me with his mouth hanging open, like I just told him I was going to rape him.

“So you’re rich, huh? What’re you doin’ here?”

I raise my glass and nod my head towards it. His face breaks into a grin and he laughs.

“Look, I’d better go. Thanks.”

Even though I mutter it, he seems to hear and flashes me another grin. I decide to get out of here as quick as possible before I do something stupid.

“Hey, what time do you get off?”

I don’t know why I said it. Maybe it’s that smile that, if I was eighteen, would make my stomach flip. But I’m not, so it isn’t.

He laughs at my choice of words, and then answers with a serious face.

“Not ‘till ‘bout two. Sorry.”

Shit! He thinks I was asking him out. I give him a quick smile, which turns out more like a grimace, grab my coat and leave. As soon as possible. The whole way to my car and then the drive home, I try to work out what possessed me to ask him that. It’s not as if he’s my age, or even my type. I’m not even gay.

By the time I get home, the only thing I’ve got my head around is that I am almost definitely going back there next week.


	2. Two

I slam the door a little too loud when I get in. It isn’t that I want to wake Nick, but I sort of do. Just to complain about how crap my day has been and then blame it all on him. 

“Fuck off, Howard. I’m busy. I don’t want to listen to your problems.”

Sometimes I worry that we know each other too well. 

“Tough luck. It’s my house. I can do what I like,” I call back, moving towards the couch.

I sit heavily next to him, making a big point of how much room he’s taking up. 

“What’s happened this time?”

I sigh for effect, but mostly because I don’t know where to start. 

“I met this guy at the pub earlier,” I began, “and made a massive fool of myself.”

“Don’t you always? It can’t have been that bad. You didn’t, like, take all your clothes off, did you?”

“No… but I might have asked him out.”

I look at Nick cautiously but his expression is unreadable. 

“‘Might have asked him out’? How does that work? Anyway, I didn’t know you were gay, I thought you were get-”

“Yeah, alright, alright,” I cut him off before he can say anymore. 

“Anyway, I didn’t exactly ask him to go on a date; I was just about to leave and he was smiling at me, so I just said ‘what time do you get off?’”

Nick laughs, showing all his teeth. 

“That is priceless. One smile and you’ll do anything.”

“You didn’t see this kid. He had the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. And when he smiled…”

“Yeah alright, I don’t need to hear this. I’m going to bed.”

“Hang on. What am I supposed to do?”

Nick thinks for a moment, before turning back to me, “When are you going out with him, then?”

“Well that’s the thing,” I feel ashamed to admit it, “He said no.”

Nick brakes into a fresh bout of laughter, almost falling over. 

“Fuck off, Nick,” I tell him, getting up to go to bed myself. He follows me up the stairs, mocking me the whole way, until I slam the bathroom door in his face.

*

The next morning Nick’s already there when I go into the kitchen. 

“You eatin’?” he asks casually.

I shake my head and he looks at me questioningly. Normally, I only don’t eat if I’m going out for a job really early but today the only excuse I have is that I just don’t feel like it.

Nick sits at the table while I make a cup of tea. 

“You’re thinkin’ about him aren’t you?”

He emphasises the ‘him’ just to prove that it isn’t really a question and he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I think about shaking my head but decide against it, instead doing nothing at all. I can feel him staring at my back, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. I stir my tea very slowly, carefully adding the milk, before finally going to sit at the table. Nick keeps his eyes on me, waiting patiently until I’m finally ready to talk.

"I can't get him out of my mind,” I blurt out. Not the most tactical approach, but I don’t know how else to start.

"How could you - he's the first guy who hasn't fallen for your line since you were four."

At that moment I feel like slapping him, just to get that insufferable smirk off his face. Why can’t he ever just make things easy? He always claims to be the calm, collected one — which I won’t deny he is — so why does he always have to infuriate me in this way?

“Come on, Howard. You’ll get over it. It’s just a crush, eh?”

He smirks at me, knowing full well that if I had my way, he’d be dead by now. Then, suddenly, his face softens and he’s looking at me with kind eyes. 

“Why don’t you go back to where you met him?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I spit back, “He’ll think I’m some sort of stalker.”

“How old is this kid, exactly?”

I know what he’s thinking, so I try and keep any sign of my worries out of my voice. 

“I dunno. Twenty five, twenty six.”

As I say the words, I know I’m lying, adding on at least two years, hopefully no more. 

“Bit younger than you usually go for, ain’t he? Actually, I think the better word would be ‘bit more masculine than you usually go for’.”

“Alright, alright.” I can’t help but smile, even though the situation really isn’t that amusing. I begin to clear away the plates and run the tap until it’s warm.

I can sense Nick standing behind me. He’s quite close and with most people I guess that would seem weird, but I’ve known him so long it doesn’t really bother me. Not until he starts talking. 

“So… you goin’ back there, then?”

“No.” I leave him no room for questions so he slopes off, and forty seconds later the familiar decibels of Hollyoaks floats through the house. He’s got to be the only thirty-two year old man I know who watches that crap. 

“Turn it down!” I yell, even though I can barely hear it. 

“Fuck off,” is the reply and I smile because this is how most mornings go when neither of us are working. Except I don’t usually have the voice telling me I’m gay in the back of my head. 

“I’m going out,” I tell him, chucking a packet of biscuits at him and grabbing my coat off the back of the chair as I pass. “Shopping,” I add, seeing his smirk in the TV screen.


	3. Three

The air whips at my face as soon as I step outside and I curse myself for not getting my scarf. But the door’s already shut and I can’t be bothered with opening it now, so I just wrap my coat around me tighter and make the short walk to my car.

The engine roars into life and the heating kicks in straight away. Having money does have its advantages. I remember the first car I ever owned. It was a third-, possibly fourth-, hand Ford Anglia from the fifty’s. It had been my dad’s, but he gave it to me on my seventeenth. By then it was over thirty five years old, but I managed to keep it for seven years, running it to the ground, and eventually wrapping it around the tree outside our house. I’d loved that car, but it was nice to be able to afford a car that actually starts on the first try.

By the time I reached the supermarket I was dreading getting out, because of the cold I know will greet me. I dash through the car park, without actually running, and sigh once I’m back in the heat. It really is bitterly cold.

I decide to get my bread first, before it all goes. As I turn into the end aisle, I see a thin frame about 10 yards in front of me. I instantly know it’s him, because he’s wearing another ridiculously tight tee-shirt, even tighter jeans and his hair sits on his shoulders as though it’s been sculpted. I’m surprised I didn’t hear the awful click of his shoes on the lino because he’s wearing a pair of ridiculously high heels, making him at least three inches taller. For a split second I hope he won’t notice me, but then I do something stupid. 

“Hey, kid!”

He spins around, and I’m surprised his heels allow him to do that. For a minute, he doesn’t recognise me and his face is blank, but then he’s grinning and coming towards me, swinging a barely full basket by his side. 

“Hey…”

“Howard,” I say, and then wonder why I did. 

“Howard. You were at the bar last night, yeah?”

I nod, unable to take my eyes off him. He seems to be the perfect picture of beauty. 

“Nice to see you again. Well… bye.”

He’s gone again, off the aisle in his stupid shoes, and I’m left standing here like an idiot, completely unable to remember why I’m standing in a supermarket. I scowl at his retreating back, grab the first loaf of bread my hand touches and stalk over to the counter, getting myself a pack of cigarettes. I can tell I’m going to need them as soon as possible.

As I’m handing over my money, he comes up behind me and whispers in my ear, “You shouldn’t smoke, you know. It’s bad for you.”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” I snap, grabbing the smokes, and stomp off. I can hear him, almost jogging, to keep up with me. Then, suddenly, I hear a crash, a yell and the sound of tins rolling away. I turn around quickly, to see the kid on the floor, clutching his knee. I bend down, instinctively, and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you badly hurt?"

"I'm not hurt at all. Didn't you know? They can only kill me with a golden bullet," but he winces, ruining the effect of his words. 

“Come on, try and stand up.”

I put my hand around his arm and help him to stand. Once he’s up, three shop assistants are crowding around us, fussing and asking if he’s okay. To be honest, they were lucky it was only his knee, because if he had been bleeding from the head, by the time they’d got here it would have been too late. I don’t mention that, obviously, it would bring up too many questions, but I have half a mind to make a complaint. Then I remember I barely know this kid so there isn’t any point me getting all worked up over nothing.

Eventually, the shop assistants leave and the kid turns to me, looking a bit pale. 

“Thanks, Howard.”

“It was nothing.” I feel awkward, all of a sudden; I’m not used to this sort of thing. 

“Do you need a hand to get to your car?” Well, as long as I’m being helpful, I might as well finish the job. 

“No thanks. I walked.”

“You walked?”

“Yeah. I can’t drive so…”

“You can’t walk home with a damaged knee, you’ll make it worse.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing…” he tries to protest, but I decide not to listen. 

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

I grab his shoulder, propelling him towards the door. As we pass one of the shop assistants, I hand his basket to her, before continuing out of the shop. 

“You really didn’t have to,” he tells me once we’re in the car. I just shake my head, flicking the radio on.

I drive for ten minutes without a word being said.

"You're a close-mouthed man?" I eventually ask.

"Nah, I like to talk."

"Better and better. I distrust a close-mouthed man. He generally picks the wrong time to talk and says the wrong things. Talking's something you can't do judiciously, unless you keep in practice."

I can see in the corner of my eye the kid’s smiling. 

“I never asked you your name,” I suddenly realise. 

“Vince,” he mutters quietly, as though he’s ashamed of it.

“Vince.” The word sounds funny on my tongue, but I like the feel of it rolling around my mouth. “That’s a nice name.”

“You weren’t lying when you said you had a nice car, then.”

I shake my head, “What, did you think I was?”

“No… It’s just that most guys don’t always tell the truth.”

I laugh gently. The way he talks makes it sound as if he means more than he says. He seems to know more than a twenty-three year old should anyway. Then I remember I don’t actually know how old he is. When I ask him he answers straight away, as though he’s been expecting it for ages. Turns out he is twenty-three. I’ve always been good at guessing things. 

“Your hair’s not actually black, is it?”

He shakes his head this time, “No, it’s blonde. I like to die it though. This is my street.”

I make a right, manoeuvring the car easily. I stop when he motions to. 

The house looks old, dirty and badly maintained. The door is a flaky green and one of the windows is broken, brown tape covering the hole. 

“Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”

He sounds hopeful. 

“Around seven?” I ask, not caring if I might be busy. I can always cancel other plans. 

“Pick me up?”

“Of course.”

He gives me a final smile and hops out the car. I watch his house for almost five minutes after he’s gone through the door.

*

Evening comes much too quickly, and before I know it, it’s half six and I’m going to be late. Nick glances up as I come down the stairs and wolf whistles. 

“Fuck off. Have you seen my white shirt?”

“Is that the shirt you’re going to get married in?” he asks with a wink.  
I turn away from him, finding the shirt in a pile of clothes that need distributing. Now really isn’t the time for jokes at my expense. 

“Right, I’m off.”

“Good luck!”

I hit him around the head as I shrug on my coat, just subtle enough that I can say it was an accident if he gets stroppy later.

Vince is already waiting at the end of the road when I pull up. He gets straight into the car. He’s actually bothered wearing a coat but it’s fluffy and smooth and brightly coloured and everything I hate.

"How's your leg?" I ask, determined not to slip into an uneasy silence.

"Hurts a little."

"Your stomach?"

"Empty as a football."

"And your love life?"

I hold my breath, not sure which answer would annoy me more.

"Not too active."

I let the breath out. Clearly that was the answer I wanted.

"Anything else bothering you?" I feel like I’m an interrogator, probing a close mouthed suspect.

"Uh-huh, who are you?"

I frown, confused by his question.

“I thought you told me you knew who I was?”

“Yeah, I lied. Tryin’ to impress you, an’ all that.”

My stomach flips at this, but I suppress it and instead answer his earlier question.

“The name’s Howard Moon."

“Genius,’ he says, ‘I’m Vince Noir.”

“Hi,” is all I can think of saying. 

“Hey,” he replies, still smiling. 

“Where exactly are we going?” he asks, after a short pause. 

“A movie. Then dinner. That alright?”

He nods, his face visibly lighting up. I swallow, willing myself to calm down, and remember that it’s just a film with someone I met yesterday. 

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t help.

I was already late when I picked him up but the traffic on the roads didn’t help. The large board in the window of the cinema told me that the film had already started… twenty minutes ago.

"Why didn't you take off all your clothes? You could have stopped forty cars." I say to Vince, not really angrily, but I think my voice comes out like it anyway.

"Well, ooo, I'll remember that when we need forty cars," he replies, sarcastically.

"So you wanna go into the movie or what?" he asks, when I make no sign of moving.

"No, I can't go into a movie that's already started. Because I'm anal." I add as a way of explanation.

"That's a polite word for what you are."

Even though it’s incredibly rude, an insult and usually I’d have hit anyone that said it; I laugh, a proper laugh, which actually manages to reach my eyes. 

“We’ll skip the film, just go to dinner instead.”

He looks pleased with this, so I pull out of the car park and head further into town.

Vince starts talking. I’m not really listening, just enjoying the way he rambles on about nothing, his voice so bubbly and light. It’s something about a new outfit he bought last week; he seems to be able to go into explicit detail about something I couldn’t care less about. When he stops talking, I can’t bear the silence.

"I haven't lived a good life,” I suddenly say, “I've been bad, worse than you could know."

He looks at me briefly.

"You know, that's good, because if you actually were as innocent as you pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere."

“What?”

“I never once thought you were just some normal guy who happened to have loads of money. There has to be a reason behind it. And it’s fine, whenever you’re ready to tell me.” 

I have nothing to say to that. Whether I can’t think of anything or that there’s nothing I could say that would make a blind bit of difference, I’m not quite sure.

Another five minutes silence ensues, until we arrive at the restaurant. As soon as I’ve parked, I’m out of the car and opening Vince’s door for him.  
Neither of us says anything until we’re sat down. As soon as the waiters gone, Vince starts talking as if nothing’s happened, which I suppose it hasn’t. It’s just me being stupid. We slip into an easy conversation, I ask him a question and he answers. He doesn’t mention anything more about my finance, but I can tell that he is only lightly stepping around the subject, biding his time, like a lioness waiting to kill.

When we’ve finished dessert and I’ve asked for the bill, Vince tries to pay his half but I just laugh and bat his hand away. 

“As if I’m going to let you pay.”

Vince pouts, crossing his arms and staring at me. Again, I laugh. 

“Right, let’s go.”

I chuck down a handful of notes; enough so that the waitress will be able to buy herself a new pair of shoes. Vince stares at me open mouthed. I’m not trying to show off, I’m just so used to having spare cash and usually I only go out with other people who are used to money, so I never think anything of it. But Vince is clearly in awe, so I grab his arm and pull him to the car, before people start looking at us.

The roads are unusually quiet, which normally I like but we’re not saying anything again, which means there’s nothing to drown out my thoughts. 

“How fast can you drive this?” he pipes up suddenly. 

“… I got it up to 155 once.”

“Wow! How did you manage that?”

“I was on a runway.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it isn’t a lie either. Vince looks impressed anyway. 

“What’s the fastest you’ve ever been in a car then?” I’m actually curious to know; everything seems to amaze Vince and I can’t help wondering if he’s been locked inside all his life. 

“About 85,” he admits quietly.

I smile slightly, not quite enough for him to see and I’m very tempted to push down on the accelerator but then I remember the four hundred speed cameras on this road and decide against it. Maybe one day. 

“So, when are you going to tell me about all your money?”

I’d thought he’d dropped the subject but clearly he’s not that kind of person. 

“What do want to know?” I sigh, keeping my eyes on the road. 

“Where’d you get all the money?” he asks, instantly. 

“I’m an assassin.”

Vince laughs, but then goes quiet and looks slightly scared. 

“You’re not though, are you? Come on, seriously?”

“I’m a-I used to… rob banks and stuff.”

“A criminal? That’s pretty sexy. How come you ain’t been caught or nothin’?”

“Because I’m actually good at what I do. It’s not all robbing, anyway, half the time it’s tracking down people to get money, stuff like that.”

Vince lets out a long whistle. “That still sounds eighty times better than my job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could've sworn I'd written so much more of this but it doesn't exist so I suppose I either dreamt it or never posted it. It's a shame because I'm not sure I'll ever be able to write the rest of this in a way that I'm happy with. One day I might try. These characters are so OOC that I might even make it not Howard and Vince at all, and just give them original names. We'll see.


	4. Three

The air whips at my face as soon as I step outside and I curse myself for not getting my scarf. But the door’s already shut and I can’t be bothered with opening it now, so I just wrap my coat around me tighter and make the short walk to my car.

The engine roars into life and the heating kicks in straight away. Having money does have its advantages. I remember the first car I ever owned. It was a third-, possibly fourth-, hand Ford Anglia from the fifty’s. It had been my dad’s, but he gave it to me on my seventeenth. By then it was over thirty five years old, but I managed to keep it for seven years, running it to the ground, and eventually wrapping it around the tree outside our house. I’d loved that car, but it was nice to be able to afford a car that actually starts on the first try.

By the time I reached the supermarket I was dreading getting out, because of the cold I know will greet me. I dash through the car park, without actually running, and sigh once I’m back in the heat. It really is bitterly cold.

I decide to get my bread first, before it all goes. As I turn into the end aisle, I see a thin frame about 10 yards in front of me. I instantly know it’s him, because he’s wearing another ridiculously tight tee-shirt, even tighter jeans and his hair sits on his shoulders as though it’s been sculpted. I’m surprised I didn’t hear the awful click of his shoes on the lino because he’s wearing a pair of ridiculously high heels, making him at least three inches taller. For a split second I hope he won’t notice me, but then I do something stupid. 

“Hey, kid!”

He spins around, and I’m surprised his heels allow him to do that. For a minute, he doesn’t recognise me and his face is blank, but then he’s grinning and coming towards me, swinging a barely full basket by his side. 

“Hey…”

“Howard,” I say, and then wonder why I did. 

“Howard. You were at the bar last night, yeah?”

I nod, unable to take my eyes off him. He seems to be the perfect picture of beauty. 

“Nice to see you again. Well… bye.”

He’s gone again, off the aisle in his stupid shoes, and I’m left standing here like an idiot, completely unable to remember why I’m standing in a supermarket. I scowl at his retreating back, grab the first loaf of bread my hand touches and stalk over to the counter, getting myself a pack of cigarettes. I can tell I’m going to need them as soon as possible.

As I’m handing over my money, he comes up behind me and whispers in my ear, “You shouldn’t smoke, you know. It’s bad for you.”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” I snap, grabbing the smokes, and stomp off. I can hear him, almost jogging, to keep up with me. Then, suddenly, I hear a crash, a yell and the sound of tins rolling away. I turn around quickly, to see the kid on the floor, clutching his knee. I bend down, instinctively, and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you badly hurt?"

"I'm not hurt at all. Didn't you know? They can only kill me with a golden bullet," but he winces, ruining the effect of his words. 

“Come on, try and stand up.”

I put my hand around his arm and help him to stand. Once he’s up, three shop assistants are crowding around us, fussing and asking if he’s okay. To be honest, they were lucky it was only his knee, because if he had been bleeding from the head, by the time they’d got here it would have been too late. I don’t mention that, obviously, it would bring up too many questions, but I have half a mind to make a complaint. Then I remember I barely know this kid so there isn’t any point me getting all worked up over nothing.

Eventually, the shop assistants leave and the kid turns to me, looking a bit pale. 

“Thanks, Howard.”

“It was nothing.” I feel awkward, all of a sudden; I’m not used to this sort of thing. 

“Do you need a hand to get to your car?” Well, as long as I’m being helpful, I might as well finish the job. 

“No thanks. I walked.”

“You walked?”

“Yeah. I can’t drive so…”

“You can’t walk home with a damaged knee, you’ll make it worse.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing…” he tries to protest, but I decide not to listen. 

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

I grab his shoulder, propelling him towards the door. As we pass one of the shop assistants, I hand his basket to her, before continuing out of the shop. 

“You really didn’t have to,” he tells me once we’re in the car. I just shake my head, flicking the radio on.

I drive for ten minutes without a word being said.

"You're a close-mouthed man?" I eventually ask.

"Nah, I like to talk."

"Better and better. I distrust a close-mouthed man. He generally picks the wrong time to talk and says the wrong things. Talking's something you can't do judiciously, unless you keep in practice."

I can see in the corner of my eye the kid’s smiling. 

“I never asked you your name,” I suddenly realise. 

“Vince,” he mutters quietly, as though he’s ashamed of it.

“Vince.” The word sounds funny on my tongue, but I like the feel of it rolling around my mouth. “That’s a nice name.”

“You weren’t lying when you said you had a nice car, then.”

I shake my head, “What, did you think I was?”

“No… It’s just that most guys don’t always tell the truth.”

I laugh gently. The way he talks makes it sound as if he means more than he says. He seems to know more than a twenty-three year old should anyway. Then I remember I don’t actually know how old he is. When I ask him he answers straight away, as though he’s been expecting it for ages. Turns out he is twenty-three. I’ve always been good at guessing things. 

“Your hair’s not actually black, is it?”

He shakes his head this time, “No, it’s blonde. I like to die it though. This is my street.”

I make a right, manoeuvring the car easily. I stop when he motions to. 

The house looks old, dirty and badly maintained. The door is a flaky green and one of the windows is broken, brown tape covering the hole. 

“Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”

He sounds hopeful. 

“Around seven?” I ask, not caring if I might be busy. I can always cancel other plans. 

“Pick me up?”

“Of course.”

He gives me a final smile and hops out the car. I watch his house for almost five minutes after he’s gone through the door.

*

Evening comes much too quickly, and before I know it, it’s half six and I’m going to be late. Nick glances up as I come down the stairs and wolf whistles. 

“Fuck off. Have you seen my white shirt?”

“Is that the shirt you’re going to get married in?” he asks with a wink.  
I turn away from him, finding the shirt in a pile of clothes that need distributing. Now really isn’t the time for jokes at my expense. 

“Right, I’m off.”

“Good luck!”

I hit him around the head as I shrug on my coat, just subtle enough that I can say it was an accident if he gets stroppy later.

Vince is already waiting at the end of the road when I pull up. He gets straight into the car. He’s actually bothered wearing a coat but it’s fluffy and smooth and brightly coloured and everything I hate.

"How's your leg?" I ask, determined not to slip into an uneasy silence.

"Hurts a little."

"Your stomach?"

"Empty as a football."

"And your love life?"

I hold my breath, not sure which answer would annoy me more.

"Not too active."

I let the breath out. Clearly that was the answer I wanted.

"Anything else bothering you?" I feel like I’m an interrogator, probing a close mouthed suspect.

"Uh-huh, who are you?"

I frown, confused by his question.

“I thought you told me you knew who I was?”

“Yeah, I lied. Tryin’ to impress you, an’ all that.”

My stomach flips at this, but I suppress it and instead answer his earlier question.

“The name’s Howard Moon."

“Genius,’ he says, ‘I’m Vince Noir.”

“Hi,” is all I can think of saying. 

“Hey,” he replies, still smiling. 

“Where exactly are we going?” he asks, after a short pause. 

“A movie. Then dinner. That alright?”

He nods, his face visibly lighting up. I swallow, willing myself to calm down, and remember that it’s just a film with someone I met yesterday. 

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t help.

I was already late when I picked him up but the traffic on the roads didn’t help. The large board in the window of the cinema told me that the film had already started… twenty minutes ago.

"Why didn't you take off all your clothes? You could have stopped forty cars." I say to Vince, not really angrily, but I think my voice comes out like it anyway.

"Well, ooo, I'll remember that when we need forty cars," he replies, sarcastically.

"So you wanna go into the movie or what?" he asks, when I make no sign of moving.

"No, I can't go into a movie that's already started. Because I'm anal." I add as a way of explanation.

"That's a polite word for what you are."

Even though it’s incredibly rude, an insult and usually I’d have hit anyone that said it; I laugh, a proper laugh, which actually manages to reach my eyes. 

“We’ll skip the film, just go to dinner instead.”

He looks pleased with this, so I pull out of the car park and head further into town.

Vince starts talking. I’m not really listening, just enjoying the way he rambles on about nothing, his voice so bubbly and light. It’s something about a new outfit he bought last week; he seems to be able to go into explicit detail about something I couldn’t care less about. When he stops talking, I can’t bear the silence.

"I haven't lived a good life,” I suddenly say, “I've been bad, worse than you could know."

He looks at me briefly.

"You know, that's good, because if you actually were as innocent as you pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere."

“What?”

“I never once thought you were just some normal guy who happened to have loads of money. There has to be a reason behind it. And it’s fine, whenever you’re ready to tell me.” 

I have nothing to say to that. Whether I can’t think of anything or that there’s nothing I could say that would make a blind bit of difference, I’m not quite sure.

Another five minutes silence ensues, until we arrive at the restaurant. As soon as I’ve parked, I’m out of the car and opening Vince’s door for him.  
Neither of us says anything until we’re sat down. As soon as the waiters gone, Vince starts talking as if nothing’s happened, which I suppose it hasn’t. It’s just me being stupid. We slip into an easy conversation, I ask him a question and he answers. He doesn’t mention anything more about my finance, but I can tell that he is only lightly stepping around the subject, biding his time, like a lioness waiting to kill.

When we’ve finished dessert and I’ve asked for the bill, Vince tries to pay his half but I just laugh and bat his hand away. 

“As if I’m going to let you pay.”

Vince pouts, crossing his arms and staring at me. Again, I laugh. 

“Right, let’s go.”

I chuck down a handful of notes; enough so that the waitress will be able to buy herself a new pair of shoes. Vince stares at me open mouthed. I’m not trying to show off, I’m just so used to having spare cash and usually I only go out with other people who are used to money, so I never think anything of it. But Vince is clearly in awe, so I grab his arm and pull him to the car, before people start looking at us.

The roads are unusually quiet, which normally I like but we’re not saying anything again, which means there’s nothing to drown out my thoughts. 

“How fast can you drive this?” he pipes up suddenly. 

“… I got it up to 155 once.”

“Wow! How did you manage that?”

“I was on a runway.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it isn’t a lie either. Vince looks impressed anyway. 

“What’s the fastest you’ve ever been in a car then?” I’m actually curious to know; everything seems to amaze Vince and I can’t help wondering if he’s been locked inside all his life. 

“About 85,” he admits quietly.

I smile slightly, not quite enough for him to see and I’m very tempted to push down on the accelerator but then I remember the four hundred speed cameras on this road and decide against it. Maybe one day. 

“So, when are you going to tell me about all your money?”

I’d thought he’d dropped the subject but clearly he’s not that kind of person. 

“What do want to know?” I sigh, keeping my eyes on the road. 

“Where’d you get all the money?” he asks, instantly. 

“I’m an assassin.”

Vince laughs, but then goes quiet and looks slightly scared. 

“You’re not though, are you? Come on, seriously?”

“I’m a-I used to… rob banks and stuff.”

“A criminal? That’s pretty sexy. How come you ain’t been caught or nothin’?”

“Because I’m actually good at what I do. It’s not all robbing, anyway, half the time it’s tracking down people to get money, stuff like that.”

Vince lets out a long whistle. “That still sounds eighty times better than my job.”


End file.
